Aymery and Denise were riding side by side, the woman pale, sad-eyed, yet resolute, the man sunk in that deep silence that follows some ineffectual and passionate outburst of the heart. They seemed afraid of one another, nor could they meet each other’s eyes. Denise’s white face might have stood for the moon. And though the birds sang, their voices gave the dusk a sadder and a stranger mystery. Aymery spoke at last, passing a hand over his horse’s mane. “Our Lady keep you,” he said, “I will not quarrel with your desire.” Denise’s lips were dry, and she felt as though the old wound had broken over her heart. “If I have suffered,” she said simply, “I have learnt what life is.” “Self-martyrdom?” His voice woke echoes that she strove to smother. “It is God’s whim in me, perhaps, that I should prove myself. Marpasse and I will go together.” Night had come and the glare of many fires lit the southern sky when they reached the edge of the woodland and saw the great downs black, and vague and ominous. The men were waiting under the woodshaw, and Marpasse stood rubbing the nose of her mule. She could hear voices, slow, suppressed, stricken into short, pregnant sentences like the disjointed fragments of a song struck from untuned lutes. Denise had left her palfrey under a tree. She came out from the shadows, and taking Marpasse in her arms, kissed her. “We go together, you and I,” she said. “No, no, say nothing to me, it is my heart’s desire.” Marpasse held her, and was mute. She looked towards a shadowy figure on a shadowy horse, and Denise understood the look. “I have told him, he will not hinder me in this.” “Heart of mine, stay here in the woods. I can go alone, my carcase is of no account.” Denise would not be put away. “Marpasse,” she said, “this is our Lord’s true passion working in me. Nor shall the cup from which He drank be snatched from me to-night.” Marpasse was silent, feeling a greatness near her that awed her rebellious impulses. She kissed Denise, and was very humble, thinking that she herself had brought this thing to pass. “Come then,” she said, “it may be that God goes with us to-night.” Aymery, standing with one arm over his horse’s neck, watched them disappear into the darkness, the swineherd going with them to show them the road to the town. The whole northern sky still burnt with a faint glow of gold, and in the south a hundred fires flickered amid the black folds of the downs. And Aymery watched these distant fires, thinking with grim impatience of the King’s host that lay yonder like a great dragon ready to tear and slay. CHAPTER XXXVIII